by Lana Sky
But fuck it.
He can tell me as much to my face.
Chapter Eighteen
The first place I go to turns me away. I look too young, they say.
Too young. I almost laugh until I catch sight of myself in a reflection on a glass window on my way out. A wide-eyed stranger stares back. Shit. It’s like my time with Maxim has aged me backward, stripping away the battle scars I’ve built up over the years. I’ve lost that spark in my eye. That gleam that made any man I walked past do a double take and clutch his wallet. That hard-as-fuck, tough-as-nails glimmer that warned bitches like Melanie to back the fuck off.
I’ve lost myself.
Now, I just look pathetic. A little girl lost, caught in the wake of a monster who dishes out the only candy worth having. Pain. She’s grown addicted to his bitter sugar and can’t stop licking her lips for more.
But, already, I’m remembering what it feels like to go without it.
It feels like desperation.
The second place I go to doesn’t turn me away.
“You start tonight,” the owner tells me as he leans against a barstool and flicks a disapproving glance at my plain, white dress. “Make sure you fucking change first. We don’t do the kiddie shit here. Thongs and lace.”
He slaps my ass on my way out, and it’s only now that it sinks in. This is real. I’m in the real world again, and the pain here doesn’t feel so good. My ass smarts. My throat tightens.
But no one steps from the shadows to avenge the assault and I just keep walking.
I waste the day lurking in another bar until the hour of my first shift. When I return to the club, I’m directed to an older blond woman who glances me over and sighs.
“This way.”
She turns on her heel and cuts a path through a barroom packed with sweaty motherfuckers clutching loose dollar bills and jostling for better seats around the stage. They whoop and holler while a woman wearing a bad wig strips her skimpy lingerie and shakes her ass to the tune of a rap song blaring through unseen speakers.
It’s nothing like the dangerous displays of flesh Maxim puts on in his club.
Not that it fucking matters.
I cut my teeth on places like this. You’ve been to one strip club, you’ve been to them all. Unless it happens to be owned by a psychopathic Russian…
Snap out of it. I shake my head to clear it as I follow the woman into a narrow room lined with mirrors and clothing racks.
“Pick something,” she tells me, nodding her chin toward a rather paltry selection of silk and lace.
None of it is hand-tailored or of the finest quality. It’s cheap, bargain bin stuff, probably from JC Penney. When I finger a black bralette, it chafes.
“You sure you’re up to this, sweetheart?” the woman asks, frowning as she looks me over for the second time.
The mirror in front of me reveals just what she sees: a skinny bitch with wild hair and haunted eyes. Her face is bruised, and cuts litter her body like the glitter my tour guide has sparkling on her skin.
She’s pathetic.
She’s not me.
But when I speak, her lips move. “I’m fine.”
“Whatever you say,” the woman says warily.
To prove her wrong, I strip my dress and start to pull on a set of black lingerie.
Rather than look impressed, she winces. “Oh, honey!”
Her gaze is on my upper thigh. Mainly the name carved into my skin.
“Your man doesn’t play around, does he?”
He doesn’t.
But he isn’t mine, either.
I know without having to search the corners of the barroom that he’s not here lurking when I take my place on stage. As the lights dim, I’m left alone in a puddle of dingy, artificial glow, unguarded by my master, who doesn’t seem interested in claiming me anymore.
Instinct guides my movements as I gyrate in a circle to some sleazy pop song. They claim they don’t want “kiddie shit” here, but that’s what I feel like: a kid sticking her fingers into electrical sockets, waiting for the moment I’ll be scolded…
Only that moment doesn’t come as jeers and taunts rise from the crowd, demanding I strip. “Take it off!”
My fingers shake as they creep up my rib cage. I finger the edge of my lacy bra once. Twice. The tease earns a round of groans, but I’m not playing the same game they seem to be.
I’m more attuned to my body than I’ve ever been. I wait for the telltale hitch in my throat. That uncanny ice-running-down-my-spine sensation that warns me I’m being watched. The cold, chilling realization that a predator is nearby with me in his sights.
I’m breaking his fucking rules for everyone to see.
But I’m never punished for the transgression.
I strip the bra to applause and cheers. The money flying in my direction is only a fraction of what Maxim could offer.
Maybe I’m stupid for spitting on that.
Or maybe…
I’m just fucking insane.
I don’t go home. I don’t even call the kids to let them know where I am. Instead, I use what little money I earned my first night to rent a motel room, the cheapest I can. The walls are as thin as tissue paper, the door even thinner. But they hold the entire time I toss and turn on the crappy bed.
Alone, I return to the club and dance the next night, scraping my meager wages together.
I do the same the next night.
And the next.
Four nights in and only now does it sink in. Reality. This new, cold world I’ve found myself in, where I’m numb to the drooling looks of horny men. Only on this night does someone touch me, hooking their fingers into my thong when I stray too close to the edge of the stage.
Asshole. My thoughts short-circuit as I wait for the disgust I should feel. The instinctive need to scurry away or fight.
Instead, I feel…
Fire? It sears through my veins as a warning. The first real fucking thing I’ve felt in so long. Greedily, my fingers fly out, desperate to chase it. Extend it. I find a meaty, groping hand that clenches mine in shock and nearly drags me off the stage and onto some asshole’s lap.
He chuckles, clenching my ass so tightly that I gasp. He smells like beer and sweat, and my heart races, pounding out a frantic melody.
Air sticks to the inside of my lungs. God, it’s like I’m waking up. I feel everything. Sharp, ragged fingernails scraping my flesh. Harsh, unsteady breathing on my neck. The sweet, terrible clench of foreboding in my belly that warns me of danger like nothing else.
Alarm bells go off in my mind. Mayday! Mayday!
I’m shaking before I spot him in the corner of the room. He’s dressed casually tonight, a realization that makes my throat tighten. A black shirt is lazily buttoned to reveal a sliver of the muscled chest underneath. Flashing eyes meet mine and the full breadth of my fear slams into me like a freight train. Have I gone insane?
Maybe.
He leans against the wall, his head tilted appraisingly. The pad of his thumb strokes his chin in a spine-curling rhythm. Slow. Steady. He watches me the same way he observes those beaten, broken chunks of marble left over from his sculpting sessions. Which is the fastest way to sweep the mess up and toss it aside?
Most nights, he just leaves it there for a maid to clean, I assume.
But now?
His jaw isn’t clenched in the way I’ve come to expect. His shoulders are relaxed, free of tension. The only ominous clue I have to latch onto are his eyes. They smolder in the glow of the stage lights, fixated on my position without revealing a shred of what he’s thinking.
But I just know.
My eyelids flutter at the feeling. It’s raw, like I sliced myself open on a jagged piece of glass. A million things rush to pour from the wound all at once. Vital things. Pain. Fear. Sanity.
But at least I’m fucking feeling something. Tears prickle behind my eyes as my head swims beneath the aching burn of emotion.
“You gonna move
or what, baby?” the asshole whose lap I’m on asks.
I move, all right. Arching my hips back and forth doesn’t earn a single reaction from the only client who matters. He could be watching paint dry as far as anyone else is concerned.
But with every slow, deliberate motion, my heart threatens to beat its way from my chest. Save itself. Flee. An overwhelming sense of danger descends like a cloud, looming above me. Doom. Doom. It’s like someone is here, whispering the word into my ear the longer I grind on the sleazy stranger.
The longer I extend my disobedience.
The perv hisses in anger when I finally climb off him and blindly stagger to the stage.
But it’s too little too late. The music trails off, followed by one terrifying sound that cuts through the murmurs of the crowd and the hammering thud of my pulse.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Clapping? The racket is made by just one man, who’s leaning against his chosen corner. The slow, deliberate crack of his palms meeting matches the way my heart thunders and slows. His eyes hone in on my own, seeing me.
Punishing me.
Stripping me bare with a soul-crushing promise.
I’ve broken our “arrangement.”
And the feral gleam in his eye reveals that he’s more than willing to devise a fitting punishment.
Chapter Nineteen
He pulls away from the wall with the agility of a wolf. Heedless of anyone watching, he mounts the stage, swallowing the distance between us with slow, deliberate strides. He comes close. So fucking close… My nostrils flare to capture his scent. Ice, winter, danger. Cotton grazes my bare skin, sparking the urge to fight or flee. Before either instinct can win, time runs out.
He leans in for the kill and I’m paralyzed as warm lips brush my cheek and raise goosebumps in their quest for my ear. He inhales, tasting my sweat mingled with the stench of a stranger.
And I tense as I wait for retribution.
“That…that was a beautiful show,” he murmurs instead, his tone level with each word. Flat.
There’s something I didn’t notice before in his hand. As he draws back, he lets it fall to the floor at my feet without explanation.
My gaze lowers, seeking it out as my fingers quiver. He brought me a rose. Its petals dot the floor as he leaves, taking the fire with him.
The damn thing consumes my attention, even as someone tries to motion me off the stage. Material is wrapped around it, mangling the lower petals. It’s a tiny strip of paper, tied with a scarlet ribbon. An address is printed on it, along with a simple message.
Wear the dress.
I stagger backstage and find a strip of silk waiting for me, draped over one of the vanities. Another folded note rests beside it, graced with crisp handwriting. Refuse me now and I’ll end this. My heart skips as I read those words a second time. Again.
End this. I should crave that outcome. An end to this pain. This tumultuous hell. No more feeling him in every pore.
The promise haunts me as I scan the page and notice all the little details I didn’t before. His hand shook as he wrote this. He pressed down hard too. Hard enough to slice the paper beneath the strokes of my name. Francesca. It’s scribbled there at the bottom, and each inked letter glows, a searing reminder of the brand on my thigh.
The dress itself is beautiful. Too beautiful. A plunging neckline shows off what the dominant male I know wouldn’t, giving a greedy glimpse of my cleavage. Too much. However, apart from the daring cut, it’s shapeless. Just thin silk rasping over battered flesh. A sudden realization makes my chest tighten.
It’s made for ripping. For tearing.
I might as well be wearing nothing at all.
I’m tempted to take it off. Walk away. He’s given me so many chances before. Maybe this is the one out I’m finally willing to take? Or not… I swallow hard as my fingers graze the material gathered at my hip. I flick it once. Twice. With each touch, I wrestle with the obvious question.
To stay or go?
Unsure, I turn and observe myself in the mirror. My mouth curls into a snarl of disgust. Fuck. Maxim’s pet is a creature I hate. She looks nothing like me. The girl staring back is too thin. Too fragile. Too broken. Her brown eyes are dilated and desperate. Hungry.
And not for food.
Not for money.
I turn my back on her and leave the club, pushing through anyone who stands in my way. It’s only when I’m outside that I start to wonder just what I’ll do. Run? The thought doesn’t even finish forming before a black car pulls up alongside the curb, cutting my escape off.
Maxim isn’t the one driving, and the stranger says nothing as I hesitate. Slowly, I reach for the handle. Pull back. Eventually, I climb in, and he takes off the moment I’m seated, pitching me headlong into another dizzying nightmare.
This one begins the same way our first official meeting did. I’m brought to a restaurant in the richer part of town, where the price for valet is more than a month’s rent.
Goosebumps prickle my skin as I eye the grand exterior. Sleek glass gives a breathtaking glimpse within. Dark walls. Dim lighting. The perfect lair for a beast who craves discretion.
I know how this part of the story will unfold. I’ll wander down this new rabbit hole and find my monster waiting for me within. He’ll give me a new ultimatum. Only this time…
This time, I’ll refuse. Walk away.
I won’t crawl into Wonderland again.
Where did this newfound resolve come from? I don’t know. It races through my veins like smoke, nearly impossible to catch and identify. God, I try. I want to cling to it. But the moment my eyes focus on the figure approaching my side of the car, that frail emotion dies.
Someone scribbled into the margins of this chapter, adding in things that shouldn’t exist. Like Maxim, opening my door and offering a hand to help me out. He shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Waiting for me. Claiming me with no time for me to compose my thoughts.
“Francesca.”
I shudder at the grated cadence to my name. He grinds it between his teeth, the only clue as to the emotions smoldering beneath the icy exterior. His face reveals nothing. Dressed to kill in black, he could almost pass for a normal man.
Almost.
But those eyes belong solely to a predator fixated on my bared skin and fluttering pulse. I stare at his palm without reaching for it. The smooth skin disguises so much potential for violence. The fingers quiver ever so slightly, echoing the unsteady energy running through my entire body. I’m a live wire. He’s a fucking lightning storm, threatening to overload my fragile senses.
Obliterate me.
A breath I didn’t even realize I was holding escapes in a rush as he stands back, returning his hand to his side. A quick jerk of his chin, however, conveys the command he doesn’t issue out loud. One I don’t dare disobey. Come.
I scramble out onto the curb. After two frantic steps on my own, I think he’ll let me walk unaccosted. Yeah, right. The heavy hand settling against my lower back shatters that delusion. His heat radiates into my skin. Figuratively. Literally. I’m breathing in flames, exhaling smoke, smoldering from the inside out like the electrical fire that destroyed our house a few years back. None of us smelled the stench of burning until it was too late.
“You’re back.” I don’t know how I manage to question him considering that my lungs are devoid of air.
His palm flexes, guiding me toward the restaurant’s entrance. From the corner of my eye, I see his jaw clench for a second and then loosen, which betrays effort on his part to stay in control.
“For how long?” I ask, goading him.
He doesn’t give me an answer as he leads me inside what appears to be a private dining room, away from the front-facing windows. Burgundy wallpaper decorated in golden designs forms a beautiful prison. There’s only one table here. Two chairs. One dinner guest, who’s standing beside me. His hand presses impatiently against my flesh, withdrawing only when I’m close enough to a
chair to sit.
But I don’t. Not even when he takes the seat opposite me and rests his hands over a pristine, white tablecloth. At a glance, a naïve woman might mistake his expression for one of calm.
But those hands betray him. They flex against the table’s surface, the knuckles whitening with every second I stay standing.
“Sit, Francesca.” He nods to the chair before me.
I don’t move. “I’m…” I trail off, unable to put into words just what I mean to say. In the end, I blurt out the argument circling my brain in a morbid loop. “You left. I thought you were done with me—”
“You are making this…difficult.”
My throat hitches at the unmistakable strain in his voice—the first slip in his façade. “Good,” I say hoarsely. “Because it’s been hell for me.” I flinch at the vitriol tainting my own voice. Fuck it. “Tell me why I shouldn’t leave—”
“I know you’re upset.” His eyes only reflect more tightly controlled restraint. “Sit.”
I bite my lower lip. It’s not quite the dangerous octave I’ve come to fear, but it’s close to it. In the end, I perch myself at the end of the chair and brace my hands on my thighs.
“We will talk, and this time, no one will interrupt us,” Maxim says, speaking each word deliberately. Almost as if he’s hammering them out between his teeth, sculpting the illusion of calm the way he does marble. “How do you feel?”
I blink. On cue, I should spit out my tired line. Fine. “Someone hurt me,” I croak instead. “And you weren’t there.”
He flinches, punched. Just as quickly, he cocks his head and his eyes flash. “No. I wasn’t.”
“And now? What?” My eyes water, overflowing within seconds. “I’m supposed to just…sit in a cage like a good little pet, while you—”
“I needed time to think,” he says over me. “Time to reassess my priorities.”
“Priorities,” I parrot. “Maybe I’ve reassessed my priorities, too? I think I need a new client—”
“I made a mistake in thinking you’d be patient,” he says before I can finish. “I should have known better than to underestimate you. Again.” As he speaks, his hand drifts toward a polished set of silverware spread out in front of him. His thumb dances a slow path from the tines of a fork to the edge of a silver butter knife as if deciding between the two. A tool or a weapon? “But you’re not angry that I caught you.” He nods, seemingly to himself. “No… You enjoy this. You enjoy pushing me to the fucking brink.”